


embers burning bright

by FeatheredShadow



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 06:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15943295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatheredShadow/pseuds/FeatheredShadow
Summary: A May Prince was born and Mary found herself in the Tower before the summer had ended.





	embers burning bright

A May Prince was born and Mary found herself in the Tower before the summer had ended, frightened and wondering if her father was really going to come through with his threats. He wouldn’t really do it, would he? He wouldn’t put to death his eldest daughter, _the pearl of his world_ , the only child of his that had been groomed in Wales to take the succession…

But Anne Boleyn had given birth to a boy, finally, and _she_ was in the Tower, still refusing to take the Oath, to sign herself away and bastardize herself, to erase her claim to the throne of England.

Not that she was going to have much of a claim left, if her father went through his threats.

If he sent her to the scaffold.

He wouldn’t, would he? He wouldn’t sentence to death his own child – not one who was the cousin of the Holy Roman Emperor, not one who was recognized as his legitimate heir by the catholic monarchs of Europe…

_But they recognized his son by Anne Boleyn as his legitimate heir, too_ , a treacherous voice whispered in her mind, and she shook her head, looking blearily at what she could see of London through the little window of her cell.

At least she wasn’t in a dungeon, but it was the only sliver of hope she could find in her current predicament. It wasn’t much worse than at Hatfield – where at least she had the freedom to go for strolls when she felt like it, once her _duties_ were done – but she was in the Tower, and the cold, harsh reality of her situation could hardly be escaped.

She was running out of time, Ambassador Chapuys had written her in his last letter. Now that a boy was born – _finally_ – the people of England considered her father’s marriage to Anne Boleyn to have been blessed by the heavens.

And he couldn’t make any promise on what the Emperor could do to protect her.

_Would do to protect her_ , Mary had read between the lines, and she could still feel cold dread going down her spine at the sinister undertones of the Ambassador’s letter.

She was on her own and she didn’t know what to do.

ooOoo

August was coming to its end when Charles Brandon, first Duke of Suffolk and her father’s man through and through, walked into her cell, an uncomfortable look on his face that he couldn’t quite hide despite his best efforts.

She was surprised at how easily she could read him, but then again, she had spent the last few weeks fighting with the various advisers and nobles her father had sent to her, studying them until she could decipher the smallest hints of expression on their faces.

The look of foreboding on Suffolk’s face was nothing that meant good news.

Another one sent here to convince her to sign the Oath, then.

Well, he wasn’t going to have more success than the others, she was sure of that.

Suffolk, it turned out, was not quite the same breed of all those nobles who had been parading in her cell in the past few weeks. He was rash and brutal and his eyes were a storm she couldn’t quite decipher, but he wasn’t above matching her shout for shout.

She had forgotten her late aunt Mary, for whom she had been named, had also had quite the Tudor temper. And Suffolk had lived with her for a long time – heaven, she remembered her saint mother, may she rest in peace, complaining – no, regretting, not complaining – that her favorite sister-in-law was spending so much time in the countryside with her husband and not at court.

“You claim to be a Princess of England, then _act like one_ ,” Suffolk finally snapped after what seemed to have been hours of them arguing and shouting. “What good would be a martyr do to you and your cause?! Once you’re dead, you’re dead. There will be no mass for Princess Mary, no grave for Princess Mary. Your body will be thrown in an unnamed grave – or one calling you The Lady Mary, if the King feels indulgent. There will be no coming back from that. You will be _dead_. A martyr, a bastard, dead all the same. Once you get onto the scaffold, there will be no turning back.”

“His Majesty will _not_ send me to the scaffold!” Mary protested with more confidence than she really felt.

Suffolk had taken little to no part in the _proceedings_ , as far as she knew, and if her father had decided to send _him_ in to convince her…

“He will if I leave the Tower without a copy of the Oath signed by your hand,” Suffolk said harshly and Mary swallowed so hard she bit her tongue.

Silence fell over the cell and Suffolk looked extremely tired, all of a sudden.

Which was nothing compared to the great feeling of emptiness she abruptly felt, as if the floor had opened under her feet and there was nothing she could hold onto.

“He would _not_ ,” she repeated weakly and Suffolk looked at her with somber eyes, all fight gone from his body.

“I would not presume to know of His Majesty’s mind,” he said before laughing darkly, a short, abrupt sound that sent shivers down her spine. “I never expected to see you in the Tower, and yet here you are.”

Mary felt dizzy, all of a sudden, and sat down brutally on the only chair of the cell, fighting not to put her head in her hands.

_A Princess must never let people know how she felt_ , her governess and her mother had drilled this into since she was but a child, and yet it was a struggle to keep her face under control – at least partly, given the somber, pitying look on Suffolk’s face.

“The Oath or the scaffold,” she said in such a small voice she almost didn’t hear herself.

“I am afraid it is so,” Suffolk answered in a calmer voice. “Now that His Majesty has his son, now that he has been congratulated by all monarchs of Europe…”

Her cousin the Emperor would not come to her aid, Mary realized. He had offered protestations at her treatment, but he would do no more, familial bonds or not.

She was alone.

“And I have to decide today,” she said after a brief moment of silence.

Suffolk nodded, barely looking at the papers spread on her little table – desk, or whatever it was, given the period of the day and the use she meant to have of it.

Nervousness running through her veins, she abruptly rose up and walked to the window, looking at the landscape of London that had become so familiar to her over the past few weeks.

Her life or her dignity – or her claim to the throne.

It came down to this in the end.

“Ambassador Chapuys asked me to tell you he is ready to send a formal protestation to the pope, considering that you signed under duress…”

Suffolk was still talking but she couldn’t hear him anymore, blood buzzing to her ears.

Her life or her dignity.

Betraying the memory of her mother or begging for her father’s absolution.

Degrading herself as a bastard and living or dying a martyr.

Meeting her Maker now or submitting to her father.

Damning her soul or damning her life.

ooOoo

“I knew you wouldn’t fail me, Charles.”

Anne felt a shiver going down her spine as Suffolk smiled briefly before being engulfed into a hug by her husband. Pride and relief were mixed into her husband’s voice, but Suffolk had a hard time being as joyful as the King was.

She understood him all too well.

Failure was not something Henry looked down on kindly – how he had treated between the birth of Elizabeth and the birth of their son…

She had thought she was going to die of heartbreak when she had seen Henry with that wench Jane Seymour, and then had thought to _really_ die when she had almost miscarried her son. She had been forced to lay in confinement after that, knowing full well that everyone was waiting to see if her pregnancy would run its course – and if a boy would be born of it. Henry had been conducting his affair with the Seymour girl until she had given birth to a healthy prince and then had thrown her lady-in-waiting away, finally contented in his heir.

Little Prince Harry was blessing, but she couldn’t quite forget there had been another Prince Harry, before – one that had lived only seven weeks. Hers was older now, bless the heavens, but he was still so frail and fragile…

Having Suffolk bring the news of the submission of the Lady Mary felt more like a warning than a triumph, but she put on a brave face when Henry turned to face her, sharing in his joy. This was one less obstacle – and what obstacle! – but her position still wasn’t completely secure.

She needed another son to fully feel safe.

After all, if Henry had sent his eldest daughter to the Tower, who could know what he would do to _her_ , if their son died and they didn’t have another?

ooOoo

“Your Majesty.”

Mary bowed deeply in front of the King, not looking for one moment at the woman who was accompanying him, and forcing herself to ignore the rest of the attendants. Suffolk, she could handle, but Cromwell, and, worst of all, Thomas Boleyn? This was more than she could deal with.

“My own daughter.”

Henry raised her until they were facing each other, looking at her face as he wanted to sculpt it into his memories. He had come close to never see her again, after all – she had hesitated, in her cell, before damning her soul – but survival’s instinct had won in the end and she had submitted to the King’s will.

“I would like you to meet my wife, Queen Anne,” the King – her father – said after a moment of silence, having stroked her cheek, a strange look in his eyes.

Nothing she could decipher, in any case.

Anne Boleyn looked older and more tired than when she had first met her – there was a cloud of anxiety over her that couldn’t be quite hidden by her manners and her outfit, and it made Mary feel a little more confident in return.

If that woman, who had the upper hand, was nervous around her, then all wasn’t lost for her.

“Lady Mary, it gives me much pleasure to see you reconciled with your father,” the new queen said and Mary bit the inside of her cheek before curtsying curtly, remaining as high as protocol permitted it.

“Madam.”

The King hesitated for a moment, Mary saw it on the lines of his face, before he squeezed her hand a little and turned her away.

“Now, I would like you to meet your new brother, Prince Harry,” he said before bringing her to the infant.

He stepped back a little, letting her meet the new heir of England at her own pace – he knew, after all, that this was a sensitive issue for his eldest daughter, and looking at her, so pale and frail, he did not wish to rush her.

Not when she had bent the knee, taken the Oath and accepted Anne as Queen, finally.

“He is a true testament to the Tudor line,” Mary finally said once she had taken a good look at the babe, before moving to take him in her arms.

No one moved to stop her and she peeked under the covers a little closely, taking in the face of the infant. He looked a lot like Elizabeth at the same age, and the memory made her smile a little.

Little Prince Harry opened his eyes at the same time and looked at her for a brief moment before smiling happily at the figure over him.

Mary’s smile grew bigger and fonder as she cooed at the infant, barely paying attention to the other occupants of the room anymore. Had she done so, she would have seen the strange looks on their faces, not realizing that her posture, and the way the light was hitting her hair through the window, made her look like the representations of the Virgin Mary on the stained-glass windows of Whitehall Palace’s chapel.

Struck by grace, Henry knew he needed to marry off his daughter to someone who would give her children.

ooOoo

The Holy Communion tasted like ashes on her tongue and she kept dreaming of eternal fire.

There was nothing but desolate landscapes and penitents wandering in purgatory.

No solace to be found.

ooOoo

Submitting – being a good, loyal, obedient daughter once more – had come with its perks – other than staying alive – and Mary found herself rewarded already by Christmas’ Eve 1536. It was a joyful, merry occasion, with a little Prince of Wales in the cradle, and her father seemed to want to share his happiness with those around him.

Suffolk had been given new titles right after her submission, that she knew already, but more came and she could see the displeasure on Thomas Boleyn’s face at the news, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. She gained some pleasure from it, a vague sense of satisfaction at knowing that the Boleyns still weren’t completely in power.

She still had allies, then – who were rewarded in the King’s Council, who would fight for the true religion, who claimed they would fight for her as if she still held the title of Princess of England.

Still, nothing came as such a surprise as when she was called for her new peerage – something she has knew would happen, but her father the King had refused to tell her what it would be exactly.

_Countess of Derby_.

Like her great-grandmother before.

This was a great honor and a mark of trust – one she was sure to cherish for the years to come. She wasn’t the Lady Mary Tudor, bastard daughter to the King of England anymore, but the Lady Mary, Countess of Derby.

Her standing at court had improved.

ooOoo

Wedding negotiations required more than a title of countess – although it was better than being simply styled _The Lady Mary Tudor_. Her father the King took his time with that particular topic – even though Mary knew she was being slightly unfair, as an uprising in the North had been the cause of great troubles at court.

It hadn’t been conductive to the birth of a Prince of York, something that being snickered about. In fact, her father’s new wife hadn’t fallen pregnant again since the birth of little Prince Harry, a topic that was hotly commented at home and abroad, as the Ambassador was sure to let her know.

Her cousin the Emperor had advised her to remain in her father’s good graces, assuring her it would be easier to protect her that way, and she had followed his advice, although slightly unconvinced by it.

She wasn’t sure she trusted him as must as she used to, but he was her cousin – and he had looked out for her, among the myriad of important, complicated topics he had to deal with, so she would follow suit.

Besides, it was his own brother-in-law’s hand that was being offered to her.

Don Luis of Portugal was ten years older than her and quite the ladies’ man, according to Chapuys’ reports, but he was good Catholic man and held a royal dukedom – what else could she ask for?

The duchy of Richmond and Somerset, this was what her father thought she ought to have for herself – and she did have to biter her tongue at that, to hold onto the same titles her bastard half-brother Henry Fitzroy once had – but it meant freedom.

It meant being able to _marry_ and hopefully have children.

(And not dream about eternal fire and damnation anymore.)

ooOoo

She sailed to Spain in late summer 1538, where her cousin the Emperor wanted to see her before sending her off to Portugal. Isabella of Portugal was the only one there to greet her – an emergency had called her cousin to Italy – but it still felt good to know she was in family, on a territory that had always supporter her, no matter how many miles she might have been.

Spain somehow felt more like home than England, and perhaps it was the weather – the dry heat of the summer that had her almost suffocating – perhaps it was the change in scenery, the diversity and richness of the landscapes… but it felt like a new beginning.

And her betrothed was here, too, so that they could celebrate the wedding already.

He had a bastard son, she learned later, but welcomed him all the same, a sweet child of seven that she couldn’t help but love.

Her husband didn’t love her – this wasn’t the kind of marriage she had dreamed of, when she was a child – but he respected her and didn’t flaunt his affairs onto her face, for which she was grateful. He didn’t even complain at the two daughters she gave birth to – the first one called Isabella and the other Catalina, to no one’s surprise.

They had lands in Portugal and she could visit her Spanish family when she wished so. Her new Portuguese family welcomed her, too, and England became a dull ache only after a few years.

She was almost surprised when she realized she didn’t miss it anymore.

Oh, of course she kept an eye on what was happening on the British Isles – cousin James the Fifth of Scotland had barely escaped death on the battlefield in 1542, and had grown more careful after that, not wanting to leave his kingdom in the hands of a baby girl, Elizabeth had been betrothed to a French prince and sent there in 1546, little Harry was being groomed to become the future King of England – but it felt like it didn’t belong to her life anymore.

Not when she had a family to take care of, not when she had a place at the court of her cousin the emperor, not when Isabella of Portugal had become between a sister and another mother to her. Her seventh pregnancy had almost caused her death but luckily, she had survived – something Mary had been glad for, as she had lost too many people she cared for already.

When her father died in 1549, Mary mourned, but not as deeply as she could have, in other circumstances – the loss hit less harshly here, in her home in Portugal, than if she had stayed in England, dependent on her father’s good graces.

When Henry the Ninth, her little half-brother, suddenly passed away less than two years later, much to the despair of his mother, still grieving, Mary didn’t even think about going back to England. She had her life in Portugal now, her daughters’ future to think, a son-in-law to take care of, a husband with whom life was quiet and delightful when the mood struck so – and the people would prefer a Scottish King rather than an English Princess who had spent more than a decade in another country now.

Especially when said King remarried with one of his distant cousins, Lady Jane Grey, a granddaughter of Mary’s late aunt. Mary remembered vaguely remembered her cousin – a mere child when she had left England for Portugal – and wondered what could have brought James V to marry her – if not to strengthen his claim to the English throne. After all, cousin Jane was of Tudor blood, although more distantly than her new husband.

Something had broken in her when she had signed the Act of Succession, and the throne of England wasn’t worth it anymore – not when she had her new life in Portugal.

Not when news of England were still bringing nightmares of damnation and eternal suffering.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always welcome :)


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